In mid-January, Donovan called. I had not heard his voice since the diner, and the sight of his name on the screen caused my pulse to race. I answered on the third ring, giving myself time to breathe. He asked whether I was free to walk along the river on Saturday afternoon. "I miss talking to you," he admitted, "and I think we could try spending a little time together without deciding everything in advance."
I told him I would like that. We agreed to meet at the public parking lot near the footbridge, a place where neither of us would feel trapped inside the other's home. After the call, I sat very still for a minute, noticing that I was both hopeful and afraid. The feelings were familiar. What had changed was that I no longer believed they gave me permission to control the outcome.
Saturday was bright and bitterly cold. I wore a wool coat and gloves my mother had given me, and Donovan arrived with a knitted cap pulled low over his ears. He looked amused to see me shivering beside the river, and I accused him of choosing the coldest day of the month on purpose. He said the weather forecast had been more optimistic. We began walking side by side, leaving a little space between our arms.
Our first conversation was about work. He told me about a complicated repair at the hospital that had kept his team busy for two nights. I asked questions, and he answered with the technical detail I had once interrupted because I thought it was boring. He described the relief of restoring stable temperatures to an area where young patients needed predictable conditions. I listened carefully and understood, perhaps for the first time, that being fascinated by the person you loved could be a decision rather than a sensation you waited to receive.
I told him about the repair workshop and my new campaign. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was making work I cared about. When I explained the difference between creating panic and creating useful interest, he glanced at me with a small smile. "Sounds familiar," he said. I laughed because he had earned the observation. We walked for another twenty minutes, sharing stories that were not declarations or apologies, just parts of the lives we had continued living apart.
Near the footbridge we stopped to watch thin sheets of ice drifting along the water's edge. Donovan tucked his hands into his coat pockets and asked how therapy was going. I told him some sessions were hard, especially the ones in which I felt tempted to explain my behavior so thoroughly that the explanation replaced responsibility. I said I was learning how to distinguish a need from a demand. He asked what that distinction looked like in practice.